


Chartruse the Green Detective

by xpatxperience



Category: Detective - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpatxperience/pseuds/xpatxperience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chartruse is a detective who resides in the ever thriving metropolis of Steamhop. One day, it is brought to his attention that a mysterious criminal has robbed the largest branch of the Fells Wargo bank. With only a calling card to head his search Chartruse sets out to catch the thief before he can strike again. Will he catch the thief? Will he survive? Will he protect his friends? Will I have pizza for dinner? <br/>Who knows? Read on to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chartruse the Green Detective

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friends birthday. It was his story but, it gave people cancer. I made it suck less.. by less i mean i rewrote the entire thing.

There are over 300 hundred bank robberies that happen in Steamhop every year. Most are just employees trying to make a few extra dollars before they retire on a mediocre pension, but every so often the devil strikes.

A professional job.

\--  
Most bank robbers don’t work as hard as Ben Aflect. This mostly has to do with the fact that most other bank robbers do not have as much energy as Ben Aflect. In addition, the universe cannot allow for more than a few genius bank robbers because if every robbery was like an Oceans movie the mob would still be around and every major city would be like Gotham... and no one wants that, not even the universe.  
\--  
My car screeches on black asphalt as I stop in front of my favorite downtown Fells Wargo. It sits in the heart of Steamhop and never ceasing to pump money into its citizen’s hands. Today, however, it is 8.2 million dollars poorer than anticipated.

I step out of the car, walk a few feet, and duck under the chartruce crime scene tape guarding the entrance. This tape happens to be the same as the original from which I drew my nickname. Sherlock Holmes and I could start a dorky name detective club.

I pull my black pea coat closer and breathe in the crime scene. My senses automatically absorb as many details as possible. Propinquity washes over me, I love the sensation of raw information; things become cloudy when future analysis ensues. My mind whirls with so many deductions that I don’t notice the least annoying police officer of the Steamhop City Police walking up to me.

“Hey, Chartruse! Has the commissioner given you the low down on what’s going on?” Deputy Isaac Cubey questions me in his cleaver, cheery voice. I often compare him to a small puppy that has just discovered fetch. His blond curly hair flops in his eyes as he powers all of Steamhop with his ever present smile. That smile could cure cancer.

“No, I have not acquired any of the details.” I reply shaking my head.

“Well, come with me. I’ll show you the vault. We can walk and talk.” He beckons for me to follow him. Our shoes click over the marble floor and the giant chandeliers overhead throw shadows across the perfectly polished room.

“This wasn’t an average bank heist. Nothing matches the MO of the usual gangs. We think that this was a single person too, either that or something like a Bonnie and Clyde. Actually this case is really interesting. They left no prints, no evidence, nothing except this.” With that he handed me a plastic bag with a business card in it. It was completely white with the words "Pavarotti Benson" written on one side.

“A calling card.” I stated more than questioned. “This is interesting.”

“That’s not all either,” the deputy continued, “I cross-referenced that font with every font published and nothing came up. Nada, Zip. That my friend is a custom signed calling card. Whoever this person is, they want us to know that this was all their work.”

A smile spread across my face, these people where always the most fun to catch. They got cocky eve careless. They were in it for the rush, not the money. They wanted the rush, the feeling of being better than the system. I admired that, risking it all. We need more of that today. Not in robbing banks of course, but for what people think is right. We reach the vault and I am jolted out of my internal monologue by Isaac Cubey’s words,

“So… do you have any ideas?”

“ID’s should be worn around the employee’s necks not on their hips, that’s makes them harder to snatch, guards need to be more vigilant, the video cameras are way too easy to spot, and people, come on, codes should be changed daily not weekly. That made it easy to get in. The bleach on the vault knobs will burn any prints so don’t even bothering dusting for any. He came in from the basement that’s why the elevator was on the top floor instead of the bottom, it should still be on the basement level because the janitor hadn’t taken his lunch break yet, and then he must have exited out from the main door as to disappear in the crowd. ” I finish before sweeping out of the vault and heading back to main entrée way.

The officer stares after me as if I am a Greek god, before I hear his hurried running to catch up with me.

“Do you know who it is?” he asks catching up to me.

“No, but I have enough evidence that if I look closer I should have a suspect by the end of the day. Then we're just one armored car trip away from closing this case.” I say striding out of the bank.

“Good luck Chartruse!” Deputy Cubey calls as my body molds into the bustle of people walking along the sidewalk.

I join the string of people heading to 2nd street, our bodies jostling in rhythm, closer than lovers yet farther away than any stranger. Our feet walk along the cold grey sidewalk to our own steady drumbeat. 

After walking two blocks I reach my destination. I amble into a bright and lively smoothie shop called SmoothieTopia.

I stride up to the counter, shed my coat and sit down on the hard bright orange bar chair. The bar tender finishes putting the finishing touch of whipped cream on a smoothie before making his way over to me. He gives me a crooked grin and with a spark in his eyes he asks,

“Regular or are you feeling bold today?”

“You know I am in a committed relationship with the Strawberry Sunrise.” I reply with a sly smile.

“You’re so boring Chartruse.” The bartender, my flat mate Hamish, winks at me before whipping up a great tasting fruit smoothie that is sweet as candy but as cold as the deep water of the sea. Can we just have a moment of silence for how great this smoothie is?

When I finish my smoothie, I bid Hamish goodbye with a small wave and stride over to what seems like a janitors closest. I produce a key out of one of my pea coats many pockets and unlock the door. When I open the door it does not reveal mops and brooms but rather a stair case. I bound up closing the door behind me with a firm click. Once I reach the top of the flight of stairs I am greeted with the comforting scent of my ever familiar flat. The flat flaunts faded orange carpet that definitely wasn’t my idea. The walls are painted an attempted chartruse color as a joke made by Hamish.

Look at me roll on the floor laughing Hamish. I thought with heavy sarcasm.

The flat has only three rooms. It houses only the necessities, a bedroom with a bed and a lamp, a kitchen with all the appliances and a table, a living room with enough furniture and a telephone. I throw my coat of and walk over to the telephone and dialed the only number that would lead me to a person who could help me solve this case in enough time before the robber stuck again. Yes, I was positive that he would strike again.

The phone rings three times before I get the monotone voice repeating the voice of this number is currently out of order.

“I carried the watermelon.” I say into the speaker rolling my eyes at the code sentence.

“Is that my buddy old pal Chartruse I hear over my line? I think it is!” There’s the Reggie I know. “How’s it hanging? How Hamish been holding up? Haven’t been wearing him out? Anyway whatcha need ‘trusie?”

“One if you ever call me ‘trusie again I will rip out your throat with my teeth. Two I need your help-“

“Well, I mean I figured that much, I mean why else would you call me unless you needed some live advise because I mean I would be happy to give you any, I mean do you need some cuz’ remember that one time we went and got some hoagies? Man those were the BOMB an-“

“REGGIE REGGESON LET ME TALK!” I scream into the speaker. When the other line goes quiet I continue talking. “Thank you, as I was saying I need your help. Someone, as you probably know has robbed the downtown Fells Wargo bank, but they left a calling card. Isaac Cubey ran the font through a processor and it came up negative. It’s custom.” I finish.

“Wow. That’s interesting. What did the card say?” Reggie questions. I dig the card out of my coat,

“Pavarotti Benson.”

“WHAT! Hold on, Pavarotti Benson? P-A-V-A-R-O-T-T –I B-E-N-S-O-N? Right? That Pavarotti Benson?” Reggie stutters.

“No the other thief with that same name.” My tone oozes sarcasm.

“Man Charturse, you are in for a long haul my friend. This dude robbed banks in Dallas, Chicago, Manhattan, Boston, and now I guess Steamhop. All the banks where completely different, he never triggered any alarms, and no one has any clues to what the dude looks like. Even the FBI is stumped.” Reggie finishes his rant with a sigh.

“But this guy leaves a calling card, I mean Reggie if you had to leave a card what would it be?” I ask bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“I would never leave a card it’s to brazen, I think the more important question is: If I where him, what card would I leave.”

“This is why I keep you around Reggie.” I say clicking the end button.

* * *

“I’VE GOT IT!” I shout as my now very startled flat mate walks in through the door two hours after my enlightening conversation with Reggie.

“Got what?” Hamish says still recovering.

“The calling card Hamish, keep up. I discovered what the writing was. I researched the name Pavarotti and Benson and it turns out that Luciano Pavarotti was a famous painter in the 19th century and look at his signature.” I show him my laptop which is currently displaying Luciano Pavarotti signature.

“Look at the way the Pavar all swoops together and the two t’s are crossed in one giant swish. It’s the exact same on the calling card. See!” I now shove the card into his hands.

“I did some more research and guess what I found. Frank Weston Benson was another painter in 1950 whose muse was no other than-“

“Luciano Pavarotti.” Hamish finished. His forest eyes pulling away from the bright laptop screen to look at me.

“Exactly!” I exclaim. “I looked up who had bought any Luciano Pavarotti and Frank Weston Benson lately and then narrowed it down to those who had their paintings shipped to Steamhop.” 

“That could be a lot of people Chartruse.” Hamish commented.

“I know that. So, I crossed those people with people who had bought paintings in Boston, Chicago, Dallas, and Manhattan. The list gets considerably smaller; in fact only one name remains.” I show him the list.

“Edward Walker?” Hamish murmurs. “Isn’t that the guy who was arrested last year for stealing a diamond ring from a jewelry store on Lovely Street?”

Noise floods my ears; a huge commotion seems to be brewing outside. Our eyes meet before they dart toward the door. We throw ourselves outside. 

When we get outside everyone is flying about. For a second I think the walking dead are eating people’s brains right in the middle of the street. Unfortunately, there are no zombies. I turn my attention upward, squinting. A black helicopter is weaving in between buildings littering the ground with green paper. The helicopter passes over us and I realize that the paper is, in fact, money. Money is raining down on Steamhop. Money that I can only assume was stolen from the downtown Fells Wargo. People push, shove and kick to gather up the bills that litter the ground like flyers for a lost dog. Cars are left stalled in the middle of the road; doors open as if their owners had been fleeing for their lives. People had taken advantage of the chaos and had broken into stores, stealing the merchandise. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Hamish gaping and pointing to something down the street. I turn to follow his gaze and what I see makes my mouth drop open. I do not believe what I am seeing.

For there on the downtown Fells Wargo bank, spray painted in black letters for the entire world to see, are the words. 

HERE’S TO CRIME! –PB

My stomach drops to my toes. My eyes zoom out of focus. Everything starts to slow down. I can no longer see the people running around like the world is ending in the streets, all I see are the black letters that are now on the bank’s exterior. 

“Char? You okay?” 

“Hun what?” I am jolted to reality to see Hamish standing there with his phone handed towards me. I take the phone from him and put it up to my ear.

“Chartruse,” The voice belongs to Deputy Isaac Cubey, “We’ve been struck again. I don’t know how he did it, but we’ve got another robbery. 

With that, I turn and take off down the street starting my long walk to the one place where I can finally get answers.

* * *

I stop abruptly in front of a door that looks as if it were holding on with its last leg, as if the gentlest wind would knock it over. Graffitti littered the ally I had stopped in. A dumpster hid the door from the unsuspecting passers, a dumpster that would surely deter most as it stank with death. Death is odor I do not recommend smelling more than once in your life, because let me tell you, it smells really bad. 

I knock thrice on the door and wait… and wait…and wait. OH COME ON HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE- the door suddenly swings open and a gravelly voice says,

“Hurry in.” I quickly step into the threshold. The man who the voice belongs to closes the door with a thud. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness that makes up the Seedy Saloon. I know, I know the name doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of mortals. Luckily, the people who make up a vast majority of the regular customers could pummel you into a pulp. You would be human juice for Hannibal Lecter before noon. 

I stride smoothly up to the bar counter and take a seat. I can’t help it as a smirk flits across my face like a beam of light. Whenever I come here I always feel as if I’m in a Clint Eastwood western film.

The bartender utters in a voice that could rival the roughness of the Winchesters,

“What do you want this time Chartruse.” 

“Pleasure, as always, to be in you company, Richard.” I reply coolly.

“Just state your business Charturse. The sooner you leave the better.” 

“You know the Fells Wargo bank heist?” His no-duh face told me he did. “I figured out who Pavarotti Benson is. He’s Edward Walker.”

“The guy who tried to rob the jewelry store on Lovely street?” He asked

“The one and only.” I repeated. “I was wondering if he might have wandered through.”

“Hmm. I don’t know, I’m having a tough time remembering, but you know the smell of money always shakes my brain.” Richard said. I sighed and suck my hand into the bowls of my coat, but I did not pull out any American currency, rather my handheld gun instead. 

“Tell me where Mr. Edward Walker lives or I will be charged with defenestration and you will be a lump of body parts on the side walk.” I reply smoothly as ever.

“Oh wow would you look at that! I suddenly remember everything. Wow. Old age is really getting to me.” He slurs out. I just give him a smile. “I think I might have seen him heading into the old pharmaceutical manufacturer right off Highway 55. Now if you don’t mind, I have a business to run.” With that he hurried into the back room. 

I put away my gun and quickly exit the establishment. I have places to be and people to see.

* * *

I have always loved solving crimes. Even when I was small, I still remember the first crime I ever solved. I was eleven. My mother had convinced me to join the swim team for a season in order to make some new friends or “have fun”. Needless to say I did not enjoy myself and have never played a sport since. Anyway, on the day of the state championship Andrew Scott, who was one of our team’s best swimmers, suddenly went missing. Twenty minutes later, he was found in the locker room dead. He had hit his head and drowned in the shower.

I didn’t believe anything the police said though. There was no blood to speak of in the shower with Andrew. I looked into to Andrew’s health records. His only health problem was severe eczema, which he took medication for. I stole his medication and took it to my father’s lab, where I discovered that, in fact, the medication had been laced with a neuron-toxin.

We never caught who did it though. 

* * *  
I pull up to the old factory. Its metallic walls fling light into my eyes making me squint. My heart pounds like a bass drum in my chest and my breathing picks up. I have faced countless killers, rapists and mentally unstable people, but every time my body never fails to scare itself. I pull out my gun, making sure it’s loaded with a full clip, before slowly making my way into the old, crumbling building. 

When I kick the door open dust immediately flies up into my face. I cough. The entryway hadn’t changed since the building rushed quarantine, the time cards, never to be used again still sat in alphabetical order. The red velvet chairs, now thick with dust, stand like butlers, ever ready to serve their purpose. The secretary’s desk lies down as a soldier would return from war. The air is stale and the only light comes from the door which I came through. I inspect the floor for footprints and find a pair made in the dust that lead me forward into the darkness.

My shuffle through the dark is uneventful. My eyes adjust to the ever growing darkness as the light from the door fades into nothing. Eventually I reach a door, I feel around for a handle. I grip the cool brass knob, take a deep breath and slowly turn it opening the door ever so slightly. 

I don’t believe what my eyes see, before me sits a pile of money nearly touching the ceiling, sitting there like an unmovable mountain. My mouth drops open a little and my eyes grow wider as I continue to stare at the massive pile of cash. I am shaken from my trance by a voice that has no body.

“I have been expecting you Chartruse.” A soft voice says. One you would expect a kindergarten teacher to have, definitely not a criminal. “You with all your brains and deductions.” My head whips around trying to find where his voice is emanating from. “You and you little cop humans, running around trying to put a stop to crime, calling on you for help like a god. Well Chartruse, you may be a god, but I’m a non-believer after all, what’s a human to a mob? What’s a mob to a king? What’s a king to a god?”  
He pauses for a second before continuing.

“What’s a god to a non-believer?” The last line is said much closer to me and I look up to see a man standing on top of the intense pile of money. He slides down the side of the mound drenching the money in some type of liquid. A fowl stench penetrates my nose and as I inhale it I realize it can only be one thing. Gasoline. With one flick of his wrist he lights a match and flings it into the pile.   
“You see Chartruse, you guys don’t get it. You, the police, the barista down the street, hell even the mob! You will never understand the need to kill or the rush you get when you pull off a heist, but I don't think that's it. I think...Deep down that’s not why we do it...we're all a little bit crazy. Yeah, even you .I think we all have a little splash of crazy swimming around in our hearts. It's not bad, in fact, it's perfectly normal to be a little... cuckoo-cachoo. And, sometimes, you can even relate. Can’t you Chartruse? But you aren't like us, are you?” He starts circling me like a vulture.   
“We do whatever they want. They take whatever we want, from whomever we want. We don't take crap from anybody. You pay taxes have an obnoxious boss, have a roommate. Don't you wish we were a little freer, a little more relaxed?” He pauses again in his speech.

“I don't know. I could be wrong, that's just what I see, and how I see it.” Then before I can register what is happening he whips out a gun and nearly impales me with bullets. I quickly dive behind the now on fire burning pile of money. I start coughing from smoke which reveals my location. I felt more bullets wiz by my face.

“YOU CAN’T RUN CHARTRUSE!” I hear him scream.

The first punch I landed on his chin. He noticed too late that it was a feint, though, when the second punch doubled him over and expelled the last bit of choked air from his smoke riddled lungs. I managed to grab his gun and throw it into some lost corner of the room. I was blinking back smoke that was filling my eyes when a kick sent me flying backwards. Outside of having the wind knocked from me, which I always hated, I noticed a fair amount of pain with the kick, which was something he wasn’t used to. A hit to the face, yes, or even the kidney...but the gut shouldn’t have been much more than discomfort, if that.  
Fortunately, I was used to it all. A veteran of bar fights in four states and countless cities, even being out of air was something I knew how to deal with.  
I stood straight, eyes bulging with rage, and stared at my opponent right in his shifty little eyes. The criminal tried to stand tall, but the smoke and flames were getting to him too. I run forward and throw out my fist to collide with his face  
The blow felt too sluggish. I knew the second I launched it. The spry, smirking criminal ducked under it. Before I could even register the dodge, however, another body shot, this one to my ribs, sent fresh ripples of pain through my torso. I didn’t fall—I made absolutely sure that I did not fall.  
The criminal went in for another shot. I shoved him off, pushing him towards the giant mound of burning cash. I pushed him into the flames. He grabbed my wrist at the last moment and pulled me in along with him. I hit the floor with a thud and the next thing I knew we were rolling around in a giant pile of burning money.   
I could feel the heat from the flame beneath my coat as it licked at the material.  
It was unreal. I managed to get on top and deliver a final blow to his face. Between the pain in my guts and ribs and the general confusion I staggered towards the door. I stumbled down the hallway feeling along the wall coughing vigorously. I pushed the outside door open letting the light shine across my face. I was having double vision but I could clearly make out dozens of police cars and fire trucks littering the parking lot. All I remember is Hamish running up to me and saying something that sounded like jibberish.  
“Psychopath,” I mumble out, my throat sore from the effort of speaking that single word.

Then everything goes black.

* * *

I pick up a newspaper from the newspaper stand called THE NEWSPAPER. The freshly printed ink smears on my hands as I unfold it. The headline reads, “Mysterious Detective Finds Bank Robber.” As Hamish informed me later the police had managed to get Pararotti Benson before he burned to death. He was now facing charges that would lead to life in prison.

“Looks like they paper wrapped this case up nicely.” Hamish says walking along next to me sipping some strange Starbuck concoction. Life pretty much returned to normal for me. Hamish had tried to give me the silent treatment for nearly getting myself killed. Again. We walked down the street heading towards our apartment the sun shining on our faces. My phone starts to ring. I whip it out. 

“Hello. This is Chartruse.” I say crisply into the speaker.

“Chartruse this is Cubey. We need you help pronto. There’s some guy from Georgia here named Rick who wants to talk to you.” 

I look at Hamish. He sighs before saying.

“As long as your home for dinner.”

I smile before rushing off down the street.


End file.
